


The Soldier

by clokkerfoot



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Ending, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Captain America: The Winter Soldier, M/M, POV Bucky Barnes, Serious Injuries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-12
Updated: 2016-03-12
Packaged: 2018-05-26 07:32:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,320
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6229321
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clokkerfoot/pseuds/clokkerfoot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Winter Soldier never remembered who Steve Rogers was. The Soldier did not stop until Rogers was dead on the helicarrier.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Soldier

**Author's Note:**

> PLEASE heed the archive warnings! There is a _lot_ of violence in this.

Only one of them was meant to make it out alive. He knew that, when the day was done, he or the mark would walk away from the battle. He had never failed before. He would  _ never  _ fail and the mark would be eliminated, just as all the others had.

He was trapped beneath the steel framework that had collapsed onto his body. Above him, the mark was doing exactly what the Soldier had been sent to prevent. But the fight was not over, not until the mark was dead and buried.

The mark was strong. The Soldier was stronger. 

He wrestled with the metal barrier that separated him and his mission, pushing upwards against the girder with his own metal force. Around him, the helicarrier shook and rumbled with explosions and shattering glass. Beneath him, a hundred feet of ashen air and the depths of the Potomac river. Ahead, the mark. 

The Soldier watched as the mark—Rogers—leapt down from the platform in the centre of the ship. He climbed over the girder and joined his effort, pushing the girder up and away from the Soldier’s chest. Their strength, combined, was admirable. Rogers’ goodwill was… unforeseen.

He took in a breath of unexpectedly dry air when the barrier released him just enough so he could crawl out from under it. At least three of his ribs were shattered, his heart rate was twenty beats too fast, and there was blood seeping steadily from a deep wound just below his left kidney. He was likely suffering from internal bleeding. It mattered little; the battle would soon be over, and he could return to his handler for treatment.

Rogers released his hold on the girder, and turned his attention back to the Soldier. Rogers, too, was wounded. He had three distinct bullet holes in his body that were making his movements sluggish. The wound in his abdomen was bleeding heavily, and he was holding it with his non-dominant arm.

“You know me,” Rogers said. His breath was dry in his throat, and there was blood in the corner of his mouth. It wouldn’t be long, now.

Still, the words stirred something in the Soldier. Ever since their battle had begun, his mark had been insistent on the fact that they knew one another. He knew it was a lie—it was trickery, nothing more. A clever ploy by an able opponent, to make the Soldier lower his guard and allow himself to be led into subservience.

He would do no such thing. He swung out at Rogers, ignoring the sharp pains of his splintered ribs pressing outwards into his skin. Far worse pain had befallen him in his time, and broken ribs were no new injury. Rogers had raised his shield, blocking the Soldier’s blow. The mark was still injured enough that he fell backwards, and the Soldier righted himself in the time it took Rogers to land.

Down below the helicarrier, the water loomed ever-closer. The ship would hit the ground soon. If the Soldier did not bring down his mark before then, the impact would finish the job.

Rogers rose to his feet again. The Soldier did not  _ respect _ Rogers, but his tirelessness was laudable. His past marks—the few who survived the initial strike—had fallen before the Soldier had even exhausted the ammunition of one of his firearms. This man, this red-white-and-blue idol, had matched the Soldier’s strength, blow for blow.

He panted, now, weak on his feet. His weight was shifted to the leg that the Soldier had not pierced with bullets.

“Bucky.”

There it was—that name. Rogers had said it several times that day. He had directed the name at the Soldier, over and over, as if it belonged to him. The Soldier had seen Rogers file; it spoke of a childhood friend, a boy not much older than Rogers, named James Buchanan Barnes.

The Soldier’s handler had only shown this file to him once, not long before he had been sent to eliminate Nicholas Fury. Context, his handler had said. Foreknowledge of who his mark was, and who would try to protect him.

The name meant nothing. Rogers meant nothing.

And yet, he paused. Rogers’ tone, his unshrinking urgings—they confused the Soldier. He had seen many men and women plead for their lives, begging mercy down the barrel or blade of his weapons, but Rogers was not pleading for his life. Somehow, for some unknown reason, he was pleading for the Soldier’s.

“You’ve known me your whole life.”

This was a lie. The Soldier struck out with all the force he could muster. His strike, clumsy though it was, landed square in the centre of Roger’s face and sent him stumbling away, blood spraying from his mouth and dripping from his nose.

The Soldier fell, too, and grabbed the downed girder. His injuries were worsening with every movement he made against Rogers, but he was not finished yet. An explosion wracked the helicarrier, and although it was over a hundred feet away from them, the ground shook. Screams permeated the air.

Rogers was not down, yet. He rose up, his suit bloodied, and held his shield out in front of him. The Soldier gripped the girder more tightly.

“Your name—” Rogers gasped between words, the breath rattling in his throat, blood spitting out from between his lips, “is James—” the Soldier shook his head, aware of what was coming, unwilling to be taken in by the lie, “Buchanan—” the Soldier readied himself to deliver another blow, “Barnes.”

It was a  _ lie _ . Something triggered deep in the Soldier’s gut, a heavy hook behind his navel, and he screamed out as his fist collided with Rogers’ shield. One of his ribs shifted with his movement, piercing suddenly and sharply through his epidermis. The Soldier staggered, in perfect tandem with his mark, and landed with his palms on the ground. He focused for a moment on his breathing. He hadn’t punctured his lung, but he could distinctly feel a wound in his side from where the rib had split his skin.

With a relieved gasp, Rogers removed his helmet and cast it aside. The Soldier rose to his full height, watching carefully as Rogers swayed back and forth. His injuries seemed to have exacerbated—something significant had happened inside his body, as his spittle was foamy and red. It was likely a lung or a stomach perforation. 

Rogers straightened his spine, wincing with pain. They both steadied and stared at one another. It was a game of cat and cat—who would pounce first?

“I’m not gonna fight you,” Rogers said, on a weak exhale. He dropped his shield, and it ricocheted between the brackets of a broken window before falling down to the water below. The Soldier watched it fall, bewildered.

Until now, that shield had been Rogers’ only weapon. Somehow, it rivalled the previously unmatched strength of the Soldier’s cybernetic arm. Rogers had not used another weapon, aside from his body. He had just abandoned the only thing that was preventing the Soldier from eliminating him.

The Soldier halted. His strategic and field training had been extensive, had been paramount and second to none, but never had an mark voluntarily laid aside his weapons before. It was…

“You’re my friend.”

It was a ploy.

The Soldier leapt at Rogers. This would be the last time; he could see it in the red froth around Rogers’ mouth, and he could feel it in the way Rogers allowed himself to be pushed backwards.

He wrapped his arms around Rogers’ waist and forced him back until he tripped and fell onto the ground. His head, lacking his helmet, collided with the glass below him. The distinct sound of the mark’s skull grinding against the glass was uncomparable to any other noise, and the Soldier did not miss how Rogers’ eyes widened at the impact.

He climbed atop Rogers, straddling his hips, then grabbed at his shoulders with both his hands. He squeezed Rogers’ bruised body hard enough to make him gasp.

“You’re my mission,” the Soldier said, Rogers’ words echoing around his skull.

With a sharp inhale that made blood trickle from his rib wound and down his side, he drew his metal arm backwards and struck Rogers five times in the face. Each blow sent Rogers’ head down against the glass, and although he wasn’t close enough to the surface for the impact to kill him instantly, each collision made his eyes bulge and made red spittle fly from between his clenched teeth.

The third, fourth and fifth blows were punctuated by the Soldier repeating his words, each syllable exhaled on a punched-out breath as he hit Rogers. The mark wasn’t fighting back, wasn’t clinging to life like he had been since their fight began. It was as if he had given up.

He pulled his arm back for a final blow. Rogers’ breathing was too weak, too shallow. He would be dead within two or three minutes.

“Then finish it,” Rogers gasped, his teeth stained red and eyes bloodshot. 

The Soldier hesitated in his movement, staring down at the breathless man between his legs. Something rose up in the Soldier’s chest, something hot and unknown. Rogers swallowed the frothy saliva in his mouth, the sound slick and wet. 

“‘Cause I’m with you ‘til—the end of the line.”

The Soldier lowered his arm. Rogers was gagging, now, blood coming out of his mouth in full-force. He twisted beneath the Soldier and turned to the side, retching until he brought up a combination of blood and bile. The Soldier recoiled, unsure why the sight made his throat seize up.

Rogers moved stiffly back into his original position, and raised his arm upwards. The Soldier flinched when Rogers touched his face, his fingers along the edge of the Soldier’s face and his thumb grazing his lower lip. He could taste the familiarly metallic tang of blood on Rogers’ fingers.

He began to cry. Unwelcome tears brimmed instantly in his eyes, and slipped down his cheeks. A sob forced its way out of his throat, catching on the edge of his lips and Rogers’ thumb.

“Hey, don’t cry,” Rogers whispered. His eyes were heavy and lidded, his bloodshot sclera wet with tears, just like the Soldier’s, “‘S’not your fault. ‘S’not you, Buck.”

“I’m not Bucky,” the Soldier said.

Rogers smiled, his bloody mouth stretched in an uncomfortably wide grin. The Soldier wiped at his cheeks to remove the streaks of salty tears and then, without thinking, reached down and wiped away Rogers’ tears, too. Rogers laughed, the sound rattling in his chest, and his fingers moved upwards to tangle in the Soldier’s hair.

The Soldier blinked, wondering why Rogers was laughing when his death rattle was suddenly so pronounced, “You’re dying.”

“‘Nd I don’t—blame you. I’s okay,” Rogers coughed and brought up more bile and blood. It spewed out from the corner of his mouth, and the Soldier wiped it away automatically. A sensation, not unlike that of a biological imperative to survive, was thrumming through his blood. He wanted this man to live.

This mark was different. He couldn’t determine why, but Steve Rogers was different.

“My Bucky,” Rogers mumbled through wet lips. He carded his fingers through the Soldier’s hair, his movements slow, “My Bucky’s—in there, somewhere. I know he is.”

The Soldier bit back another unbidden sob. He had never cried on a mission before, had never felt remorse for ending a target’s life. Yet, this was somehow more than remorse. This was grief. His body was mourning the man beneath him, even if he could not ascertain  _ why _ .

“Bucky…” Rogers slurred, “My Bucky.”

“Yes,” the Soldier whispered. Rogers had only moments left to live.

He unmounted Rogers and knelt beside him, then pulled his upper body into his lap. Rogers gurgled around saliva and blood when he was moved, but exhaled calmly when he settled against the Soldier’s abdomen, when the Soldier touched his hand to the blood-slick surface of his stomach. It felt… natural. Something clicked, when their bodies came to rest together.

“I’m here,” the Soldier continued. He stroked Rogers’ matted hair away from his eyes, in a gesture of comfort that he neither understood nor planned, “Bucky. I’m Bucky. Your Bucky.”

He had not meant to say those things. Rogers was his mark, his mission, the man he had been sent to eliminate. He did not need to cradle his head in his hands while he died, did not need to lie to make him feel content while his life drained away. That was not the way the Soldier carried out assassinations, yet Rogers was making happy, comforted sounds that made the Soldier’s chest ache.

Rogers breathed for the last time, his chest rising and rattling under the Soldier’s hand. He exhaled, his lips mouthing the name  _ Bucky _ , eyes fixed on the Soldier’s own, then fell silent.

The Soldier brushed Rogers' eyelids closed.

He recognised the symptoms of shock in his own body, in the shallowness of his breathing that was not a result of his broken ribs, in the clammy feeling that crept up the nape of his neck, in the chill that shivered across his skin.

A support from high-up in the helicarrier fell down towards them. The Soldier caught sight of it in his peripheral vision as it tumbled towards the ground, but he did not move against it.

He and Rogers fell from the helicarrier together. The Soldier took the impact of the water, and he pulled Rogers’ broken body to the debris-littered shore. Rogers deserved a funeral that befitted his life—he might not have known exactly what sort of life Rogers had led, but he knew he was deserving of a burial, not a water-grave.

The Winter Soldier walked away from Steve Rogers’ bloody corpse, and he did not look back.

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first violent fanfic I have ever written in my life, so I apologise if it's not accurate. Thank you for reading!
> 
> Find me on Tumblr [here](http://clokkerfoot.tumblr.com/).


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